


I Had a Ball!

by Hatsepsut



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Fenris and Hawke shocking the nobles, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Public Display of Affection, Romance, Sex in hidden nooks and crannies, Smut, formal ball, suggestive talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 00:48:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3958198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hatsepsut/pseuds/Hatsepsut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke needs to go to a formal ball in her honour. Baring the fact that she has no idea how to behave in formal occassions,or that she has to wear a corset, damn it, she has nobody to go with...or has she? She knows who she wants to go with, now all that remains is for him to cooperate. <br/>Fenris eventually caves and goes with her- with results he couldn't have forseen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Had a Ball!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Leitha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leitha/gifts).



> My friend Vhelan, who goes by the nickname Leitha on this site had won this one-shot as a present- don't ask me what for, I can't remember.  
> Some scenes in this fic wouldnt have been writte without her input- the painting scene especially, because she provided nearly all of it. My knowledge in art is deprorable, after all.

“I’m not going.”

Varric peered over the invitation again then shot a frustrated look to Hawke. “You _are_ going. With bells on.”

“I’m not. You can’t make me,” Hawke pouted and stomped her foot.

“The Ball is in your honour, Hawke,” Varric sighed, speaking like he would to a stubborn five-year old throwing a tantrum. “As in thrown especially for you. You can’t _not_ go.”

She pouted some more, folded her arms across her chest, and looked away, tilting her chin in an obstinate angle. Suddenly her eyes shone with sudden inspiration and she turned to Varric, smiling brightly. “I can’t go. I’m in mourning.”

Varric huffed. “Sell that bull to someone who’s actually going to buy it, Hawke,” he tossed her then unfolded the parchment again. “Hosted in memory of the recently departed Leandra Amell, and in honour of the Champion of Kirkwall,” he read. “Not going will be like insulting your own mother’s memory.”

Hawke pouted that adorably full lip again. “I can break my leg,” she hopefully suggested.

“You can use crutches.”

“I can get a cold.”

“I’ll get you some handkerchiefs.”

“I’ll be on my menses that day.”

“Ewww, but I’ll get you...whatever it is you girls get. _You ARE going, Hawke_.”

“I’ll...Damn it Varric! I have nothing to wear, and no one to go with!”

A smile spread on Varric’s face. “Is that what it’s all about? I know a good seamstress, Hawke. As for a date, you can have your pick. Sebastian, Anders; Void take him, even Fenris can escort you.”

Hawke’s eyes bulged out then she let out a little sarcastic chuckle. “Yeah, right. And I can dance the Remingold.”

“You can’t?” Varric rubbed his forehead. “Tell me you can at least eat with a fork.”

She batted her eyelashes at him, smiling innocently. “What’s a fork?”

Varric sighed again, swore, then looked to the ceiling. “Why me, Maker?”

* * *

Maker bless Varric, Hawke thought for the millionth time as the seamstress left her house, weighted down with bolts of fabric and books of designs. He had arranged everything with lightning speed, the dress-maker, the woman that would come do her hair, the shoe-maker and the jeweller. He had even asked Sebastian to come give her lessons in courtly behaviour and formal dances.

Now the only thing was, to find herself a date.

Oh, she knew who she wanted to go with. If he said no, then she would have to ask Sebastian, but the tall Starkhaven ex-Prince was not who she dreamed of going to this ball with.

No, the Prince was not _her_ prince.

It was a bitter, opinionated elf, an ex-slave, a man living in a rundown mansion. It was Fenris, the man that had broken her heart a few months ago when he had left her after a night of the hottest, most burning passion of her life; it sent a shiver down her spine just remembering now.

Damn him. She still wanted him. She would always want him. He was like a drug in her bloodstream, controlling her every thought, commanding her every breath. She was addicted to his moss green eyes, to his white hair, the exotic sun-kissed bronze of his skin. She was obsessed with his deep, throaty voice; that chocolate on gravel timbre that could make her swoon by just reciting the alphabet.

Void take him. She was head over heels in love with him, and he had tossed her away like used goods.

She shook the pensive thoughts from her mind. The blighter owned her. After the way he had treated her, the way he had broken her heart, he’d better not refuse, because she would...she would...Damn him. She would kiss him till he suffocated.

Maker, she was beyond hopeless. So beyond hopeless that there simply was no hope for her....eh. Whatever.

She had been so angry with him, so rightfully furious; until she’d seen him. He was wearing a red band – _her_ red band, the one she used to tie her hair back - around his wrist, and an Amell family crest on his belt. He’d just stood there, his eyes guarded, his posture hunched like that of a slave awaiting his punishment and she...she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t make him go. She couldn’t tell him to get the hell out of her sight. Her anger had bled and died, sadness had flooded her; and still he’d waited, his eyes cast downwards, shoulders stiff as preparing for the lash of a whip.

She’d kissed his cheek and told him it was okay. Told him she wasn’t angry. Told him she understood.

She would never forget the way his eyes had widened in shock and then the relief that had flooded them.

And that breathtakingly sad, heart-stoppingly tender little smile on his lips.

That was the last they had talked of it, at least to each other.

But that first day had been incredibly difficult. She’d had to watch him fight, his corded lean body a blur of movement and barely leashed fury, and remember how he had first kissed her her, how he had approached stalking towards her like a hungry cougar, his gaze smouldering. She’d had to listen to him speaking and remember his voice, hoarse with lust and pleasure, whispering her name in the dark as she’d writhed under his touch. She’d had to watch his eyes and remember the green orbs fogged with passion and desire for her as he’d taken her that night, moaning her name softly as his body coiled and struck, as he’d thrust deep, deep into her welcoming depths.

It hadn't been easy. By nightfall she’d wanted to just sit down and howl. Varric...Varric had been a godsend. She’d broken down in his suite that night; she had cried and raged and called Fenris names and ended up curled on the dwarf’s lap, her head buried under his chin, sobbing her eyes out on his chest hair. He’d crooned to her and told her jokes and stories, had tried his best to comfort her.

Varric was her cuddle-bear, her bro.  She didn't know what she would have done without him. She’d told him everything, not even sparring him the raunchy details, and he had helped her put things into perspective.

“The elf is his own worst enemy, Hawke,” he had said. “The poor lad wants to be happy, so much, but he is afraid to. Give him time.”

She had tried living by these words, all these months. Three months, two days and eight hours, give or take, not that she was counting. Much.

 _Give him time, give him time_. It became a mantra, a secret chant that helped her function every day. _Give him time. Time_. He would come around. All he needed was time. She didn’t let herself think that if he felt nothing for her all the time in the world would not help her. She had to believe he cared, even a little, she had to believe she had not been just a roll in the hay for him.

She couldn’t survive otherwise.

But it hadn't been easy. It had drained her so much that her usually composed, cheerful mask was slipping at the edges. Smiling at him every day had begun to take its toll on her; Andraste help her but if she heard him mutter “I am yours to command” with that sinfully velvety voice of his one more time, she would probably scream.

It had gotten easier with time, but not painless; not effortless.

Just as she had been able to smile again, her mother had died. Fenris had come and sat by her side that night; it had been awkward at best but she’d appreciated the gesture. He would never know how much. And then, when he left, Varric had come and read to her, a bawdy tale about Guards in Hightown getting into naughty shenanigans, until she had laughed and her tears had dried.

She frowned. Varric was going to be out of town for at least a few weeks, having to travel to Tantervale on Guild business, otherwise she’d have him escorting her to that damned Ball in a heartbeat. There was not another soul she trusted more than him; for an apostate with trust issues, that said a lot.

She sighed. Maker, if she’d known that whole Qunari mess would end up with her being named Champion, she’d...she’d have done exactly the same, who was she kidding? No way was she going to let those horned beasts drag Isabela off with them, no matter how disappointed she was with the pirate. And...Fenris had squeezed her hand before she’d stepped forward to battle the Arishok. That alone had been worth the new scar and the pain.

She was jerked out of her thoughts by her name being called out.

Well, speak of the devil.

“Hawke,” the elf in front of her greeted her, nodding his head. “Out for a stroll?”

She regarded him with a small sad smile, her thoughts still a little pensive.

“I was coming to see you,” she looked him up and down then blushed. “Were you busy? I’m sorry to...”

He gave her a puzzled look. “I was heading to your estate. We have a lesson scheduled, do you not remember?”

Her blush deepened. Damn that ball had taken hold of her thoughts so much that she’d forgotten it was that day of the week, the one she lived for, the one when he came over for his weekly reading lessons.

“Ermmm...yes,” she mumbled. “I wanted to ask you something. Sorry, it completely escaped my mind.”

One eyebrow rose but that was all the curiosity he showed. He motioned behind him, to the door of his dilapidated estate, and stood to the side to let her pass.

He was always like that, his manners impeccable, his speech formal and articulate. Maker help her, she was nothing more than a country bumpkin in comparison, putting her foot in her mouth all the time, never remembering how to behave in front of company.

She drew a deep breath to gather her courage.

 _Here goes nothing_ , she thought.

“No. Absolutely not,” Fenris shook his head for emphasis then looked to the far wall to avoid seeing that full lip pout. “Invite the Prince.”

“But Fenris,” she whined, “Sebastian said it is not proper for a Chantry Brother to attend such social events. Pleeease?! Pretty please?”

He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “What part of ‘no’ did you fail to comprehend, Hawke? It is a simple two letter word signifying denial. N-O. No.”

She gave him the full effect of that pouty lip and her pleading eyes. Vendetis, he wanted to bite that lip, lick it until her mouth fell open, nibble it and worry it until it reddened even more...No. Such thoughts were weakness and would bring them both nothing but heartache. He controlled himself with a small quiver. Damn her, it was getting more and more difficult being around her without being able to touch her.

“You may direct that pleading look my way all you please, Hawke, but my answer is irrevocably no. Ask Varric.”

“Varric won’t be here that day,” she bit her lip. “Please Fenris? I am begging you here.”

“Ask the abomination,” Fenris suggested, fighting a losing battle against her beseeching look.

She raised an eyebrow. “Really? You want me to invite Anders?” Her eyes became shadowed by a sad expression before she tried for a wan little smile. “Fine. I’ll ask Anders. And if Justice decides the amount of cheese on the canapés offends him and wrecks the place, it is all on your shoulders.”

A little chuckle escaped him before the vision of Hawke dancing the night away in Anders’ embrace sobered him up.

“I am confident there are hosts of nobles eager to escort you,” he tried one last argument. “You can’t possible want to be accompanied by a lowly elven ex-slave. It would cause a scandal. ”

Her eyebrows furrowed over her catlike eyes that flashed in indignation. “You are not a lowly elven ex-slave. Most of those noble fops aren’t worth the dust you walk on. Don’t talk about yourself that way!”

A wave of warmth spread through him at her words, to be quickly followed by overwhelming guilt. She was...Maker, she was...amazing. Mage or not, she was the most amazing creature he had ever met.

He tried hiding behind the old, deep-rooted distaste for her kind to avoid acknowledging the fact that she had come to be...everything to him. She was warm, kind-hearted, compassionate; she was the air that he breathed and the sun that warmed him.

And he had let her go. And was now pushing her in the abominations’ arms. Disgusted with himself, he swallowed hard and looked to his feet. What a sad excuse of a man he was. He was pushing the only woman he had ever lo...

_No. Weakness. Don’t go there._

“I only speak the truth, Hawke,” he calmly countered her, something hard still melting in his chest at the fervent way she had defended him. “It is what the nobles will say.”

“Who gives a shit?”

He tutted. “You have been spending too much time with the dwarf; his vulgarity is rubbing off on you.”

She shrugged then her eyes found his and he nearly gasped at the longing in them. “So, what will it be, Fenris?”

The warrior rubbed a weary hand against his forehead, then sighed and bowed his head. “Fine, then. The answer is yes. Maker, help me.”

She beamed at him. The honest joy on her face was enough to make him forget his misgivings; he watched that smile transform her pretty face into that of a goddess with his heart starting to both pick up its pace and break into little pieces.

Maker, how had he let this woman go? _Why_ had he let this woman go?

She jumped up and down in joy and he couldn’t help smiling a bit at her enthusiasm; it was so catching; the way her eyes were twinkling was so enthralling.

“I’ll send you Varric to take care of the details!” his mind focused on her voice again, as she started blubbering. “You’ll need formal clothes, and boots, and...”

“I’m not wearing boots,” he interrupted, but she seemed not to even listen to him.

“...and we simply must get you some jewellery, one of those chains the nobles were around their necks, and...”

“I am not wearing any jewellery!” Fenris was starting to panic now.

“...and oh, wouldn’t something in blue look lovely on you? I must tell Varric to send you that seamstress...”

“No. Absolutely not,” Fenris took a deep breath to control the wave of panic rising inside him. He hadn't realised the damned Ball would need such preparations. “Not blue. I am not wearing blue.”

She finally paused her babbling to look at him. “Green?”

“No. Not green either.”

“Red then,” she pouted again.

Confronted with that adorable pout, Fenris sighed and caved in. “Black or I walk.”

She looked him up and down, blushed then nodded.  “Black it is,” she said, a bit breathlessly.

 

* * *

Varric stood to the side, watching his pal Hawke twirling and bowing and going through the steps of the Remingold under Sebastian’s expert eye. He cringed a bit as she stumbled and nearly fell during one of the most difficult routines.

“So,” he asked Sebastian in a low murmur, “how is she doing?”

“She’s as graceful as a wet cat with four left paws,” Sebastian whispered under his breath before smiling brightly at Hawke. “One more time, Hawke, you are doing wonderfully well.”

“I call bullshit, Sebastian,” she grumbled, as she came to a halt in front of him. “I stink so bad I wonder how you haven’t plugged your nose yet.”

“It takes practice, sweetling,” Sebastian smiled warmly, encouragingly, at her. “Don’t give up yet.”

“Wouldn’t this be easier if she danced with a partner, Choir Boy?” Varric asked and smiled at the wide-eyed, panicky look that crossed Sebastian’s face.

Hawke’s eyes twinkled. “Poor princely toes.”

Sebastian sighed. “Not yet. We need to work on your table manners, now, Hawke. I had Oranna set up a formal dining table.”

Varric snickered, earning himself a withering look from Hawke. “ _This_ I have to see!”

Sebastian led the way to the dining room. “And then, formal, polite conversation and manners. We have a lot of ground to cover.”

Hawke shot Varric a pleading look. _Save me_ , she mouthed, but the dwarf just snickered more.

“It really is simple, Hawke,” he said. “Just keep your feet on the ground and out of your mouth. Better yet, let the elf do the talking. He’s much better at it than you.”

“I can do that,” she said with a dreamy look. “Maker knows I adore hearing that man talk.”

Varric smiled. “I would say you have it bad, Hawke, but instead I will borrow a page out of his book and say you are most irrevocably and unambiguously infatuated.”

Sebastian turned back then, and with an elegant gesture directed them towards the dining room. Hawke sighed. He made it look so damned easy. But then again he’d had the benefit of being groomed from an early age as a noble, while she’d spend her childhood playing in the dirt and being slobbered on by mabaris. And Fenris, damn him, was even more well groomed, because while Sebastian had been a pampered third son of a Prince, Fenris’ lessons had been drilled into him with the threat of violence and pain.

She wished for the hundredth time that she had paid attention when her mother had tried to teach her manners. Leandra Amell had been able to pass as a highborn lady even when mucking out a stable.

Damned genes. Couldn’t she have inherited some of her mother’s innate grace? She sighed again and walked into the dining room. How difficult could it be?

Her eyes opened wide and she gasped. “Are all these forks for me?”

“I am afraid so, Hawke,” Varric snickered. “All for you. Knock yourself out.” He then turned to Sebastian. “The very best of luck to you, Choir Boy. Maker knows you’ll need it.”

He then pushed Hawke into the room and closed the door behind him, still chuckling.

* * *

Fenris paused in the middle of his training routine, sword still held at the ready, and tilted his head to the side, listening intently. A little sound, like that of a lock being picked. Slavers. Could it be slavers?

Every muscle on his body tensed, reading for battle.

“Oi! Elf! Broody!” A familiar voice bellowed. “Get your scrawny ass down here!”

Fenris sighed and put his sword to the side, then wiped himself down with a rag before he donned a thin linen tunic. He leisurely made his way to the top of the twin staircase and leaned on the balustrade, giving Varric a look that could curdle milk.

There was a woman behind the dwarf, a plump little human, weighted down by bolts of fabric and books. She was looking around with wide eyes; there were skeletons of the slavers he had disposed of more than three years ago still strewn about. Fenris sighed. The woman was trembling from head to toe. What had Varric been thinking? She was likely to start screeching any minute and scream bloody murder to all that would listen.

“Varric. To what do I owe the...pleasure,” he spat the wordwith disgust, “of this visit?”

“Ah, Broody, there you are. How did I ever not notice you, you bright ray of sunshine?” 

Fenris started walking down the stairs, taking one careful step after the other to avoid the spots where the planks on the flight of stairs were loose or broken. The woman moved a couple of paces back, ready to bolt.

“Madam,” Fenris nodded politely at her, making her instantly relax a little, and then turned to Varric. “Pain in the posterior,” he nodded towards him as well and Varric just chuckled.

Varric chuckled some more, enjoying himself immensely. “This is Madam Jacqueline, one of the best seamstresses in Kirkwall. She’s here to take your measurements.”

Fenris turned his intense green gaze towards the woman. “No need,” he said. “Slim. Average height. Elf.”

The woman tutted. “Non, non, non, monsieur, zat won’t do,” she lisped in her distinctively Orlesian accent. “Mademoiselle Hawke iz paying me handsomely to do ze best work, oui? We need ze clothes to be excellently tailored. Take off your clothes, messere.”

“WHAT?”

Varric’s laughter boomed into the empty mansion.

* * *

A few days before the ball, Varric went to see Hawke for the last time before he left for his ‘business trip’. He found her in her bedroom, looking at the finished gown with a critical eye.

“What’s wrong?” Varric looked at the pale ivory ball gown. “Did it bite you?”

She sighed heavily, gestured at the dress without saying anything, then threw both arms in the air.

“Fuck. This is not me, Varric. Formal balls and gowns and...did you know  I have to wear a corset? A corset, for fuck’s sake!”

She sat down on the edge of her bed, feeling and looking dejected. “I will make a fool of myself. I can’t tell a steak fork from a fish fork and the water glass from the wine glass...and I’ll say something stupid, I know I will. I am no noble.”

Varric sat down next to her and took her hand in his.

“Hawke, you are the most adorable lady I know, bar Bianca. Forget about all that pretentious shit. Just be yourself and you’ll charm the pants off of them.”

She sent him a little grateful smile.

“Really?” At Varric’s affirmative nod a happy smile lit up her face, then dimmed. “But I still have to wear a corset, damn it. And petticoats under that dress.”

Varric pursed his lips not to laugh. “Were you hoping for a little knee-trembler with the elf? An upright quickie? Don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll find his way.”

She blushed then punched him on the shoulder.

_Oh, she could hope..._

* * *

When the day of the ball arrived, Hawke was a trembling mass of quivering nerves. Oh, if Kirkwall could see her now, their glorious Champion, shivering with fear and anxiety at the thought of a formal dance!

She took a nice long hot bath, hoping to calm her frazzled nerves. She scrubbed and scrubbed, then pampered herself with a body cream she had bought from the herbalist in the Gallows, sinfully rich and smelling of lilacs.

The woman that was supposed to do her hair and makeup came after lunch and Hawke marvelled at the way she managed to twist and curl her unruly mop of dark hair into a well behaved loose bun. She turned this way and that, admiring her own head in the mirror; the stylish hairdo left her swan-like neck naked, and she marvelled at how pale, how graceful the line of her throat was, how creamy her shoulders looked without that mass of dark hair sticking to it. The stylist had left some tendrils casually trailing down the side of her face, contrasting with her pale, flawless complexion, and softening the line of her jaw that was a little too square for her tastes.

The makeup was...she looked at herself again, blinking at the stranger in the mirror. She had never imagined her yellowish eyes could look so exotic, so cat-like. She had never thought that her mouth-that she only ever cursed for being too quick to speak-could be so full, so kissable.

She looked at the stylist, stunned, and the woman just smiled and told her she was very beautiful.

 _Beautiful?_ Hawke thought looking at herself again, a smile spreading. _I’m fucking gorgeous!_

But when she put on the dress...she forgot about the discomfort of the corset, the annoyance of the rustling petticoats. She forgot about everything, and just stood there, transfixed, staring at herself. She blushed at how much fuller, perkier the corset made her breasts, how their creamy tops were revealed from the low neckline of the dress. She turned around to admire how the dress swished and twirled around her curvy body. Yellow diamonds glittered on her ears and around her neck, only her eyes being brighter. She smiled and twirled around until Orana warned her that she would ruin her hair; she felt giddy with feminine power, alluring and beautiful, sexy and desirable.

She heard Bodahn let Fenris in downstairs and rushed out the door. At the very last moment, she remembered Sebastian’s words.

_A lady is always composed, Hawke._

She stopped, took a couple of deep breaths, then slowly, calmly, _fucking collectedly_ , she went down the stairs.

She had a few seconds to observe him before he realised she was there, and her breath caught. Maker. Oh, oh, Maker’s breath. Maker’s blood. Sweet Andraste and her freaking mother.

Breathtaking in black silk and velvet, Fenris looked like he was born to be a prince of Arlathan. His white hair had been groomed and styled, the colour in stark contrast against the velvety black of his outfit. The noble’s leggings and doublet he was wearing was accentuated with needlework in silver thread, much like the lyrium lines that adorned his skin, and the high collar of his shirt highlighted the elegant bone structure of his face; the high cheekbones, the blade-like nose, the pointed ears. Her eyes watered; he had even put on boots, back knee-high boots made of the shiniest leather.

He turned around then, and time screeched to a halt. His eyes widened, and he looked at her up and down, a nearly comical look of disbelief painted on his face.

“Maker...” he breathed and then shook himself to find his composure. Hawke’s feminine self-confidence soared at the enthralled, captivated look he gave her before bowing down. She blushed, realising a similar expression graced her own face.

“You look stunning, Hawke,” he muttered, and then approached her and bowed more formally.

Hawke managed to remember the formal curtsey and, considering how shaken up she was, carried it out exceedingly well, if the small smile on his face was any indication.

He presented her with a box, and she realised with a start he had actually bought her a corsage. Blushing furiously, she stretched her hand towards him, and he fastened the tiny bouquet on her wrist, lingering for just a second more than was necessary to let his fingers caress her pulse point.

With a thud, Hawke’s heart started galloping.

They looked into each other’s eyes, breathless, time again standing still. There was awe and joy in their gazes, desire and longing. His eyes darted to her full mouth, and Hawke knew, _just knew_ , he was thinking of kissing her.

But damn him, he managed to control himself, coughed, pulled a little back then gestured at the door.

“Shall we?” he croaked, his voice uncharacteristically thin.

“Oh, wait, I forgot something,” Hawke called out then rushed back into her bedroom and returned with a little box.

She blushed before handing it to Fenris and he gave her a puzzled look before opening the cover. “I hope you haven’t gotten me those nobles’...oh.”

A smile spread on Hawke’s face at the look of surprise and then pleasure that spread on Fenris’ face. He stood still, looking at the contents of the box for the longest time, before his eyes found hers, and he uttered a simple and heartfelt ‘thank you’.

It was her turn to fasten the new red silk ribbon she had gotten him around his wrist, and affix the shiny new Amell family crest on his belt.

“There,” she said. “Now we can go.”

Fenris shook his head, his eyes on the red ribbon around his wrist. He hadn't worn the token of their night together, because the fabric was getting too threadbare for such an occasion and because...because it was like a stamp of ownership, a declaration to the world that Hawke was his. He had left it behind, aching inside, because this was her world, her crowd, and he didn't want the nobles talking about her, about the fact she had taken an elf as a lover -even if it had been just that one time.

But she had given him a new one.

It was like declaring to all and sundry that she was his. Did she realise that?

He caught her looking at him out of the corner of her eye, watching his finger caress the ribbon, a fogged look of pleasure on her face.

_Maker. She does know. She has done it on purpose._

And with that thought, the walls around Fenris’ heart crumbled down with a crash and he...

He was hers.

* * *

It wasn’t done for the guest of honour to be early; Sebastian had called it ‘being fashionably late’.  So, when Hawke and Fenris arrived at De’Launcet mansion, most of the nobles of Hightown had already assembled. The De’Launcets had volunteered to host the ball, as theirs was one of the biggest mansions in Kirkwall, and the only one, apart from the Keep, with a huge ballroom.

Hawke slipped her arm in Fenris’ as they were going up the stairs, and he murmured a few words of encouragement that were lost in the din of the people inside as the huge door opened.  A footman, an elf in a formal uniform took one look at them, then did a little double take at the Champion’s escort.

Fenris glared at him. Hawke announced their names, and the footman stepped a few paces into the great room, then banged the staff he was holding to gain the crowd’s attention.

“Her Heroic Grace, the Champion of Kirkwall, Marian Hawke and her...escort, the warrior Fenris.”

An eerie silence spread as Hawke and Fenris walked in, her arm in his.

Fenris kept his eyes and expression calm, struggling not to cringe and scowl under all these judgemental, speculative stares. He noticed a few nobles leaning in to whisper into their neighbours’ ear and a few lewd smiles. Refusing to be cowed, or be affected by their obvious disapproval, he straightened his spine, and held his chin up, meeting the eyes of the nobles full on, until they were forced to look away.

Hawke tensed up, taking in the faces around her, snuck a look at him and then...then she got angry. Furiously angry. Her eyes sparkled, and suddenly, the tensed, nervous girl that had almost had three meltdowns while preparing for this event was gone, to be replaced by the Champion of Kirkwall, the same woman that had stood in front of the Arishok without flinching.

She turned to him and cupped his face, standing on tip toe to kiss him, right in front of the assembled nobles of Hightown.

A collective gasp echoed. His heart melted into a puddle of goo at his booted feet. _Maker_ , he thought. _I do not deserve her, but after this night, I will find a way to_.

Hawke just smiled at his shocked face and then she rounded on the nobles, motioned a waiter over and with a loud voice asked “Any problems?”

Fenris nearly laughed at the way the shocked nobles rushed forward to greet her, fawn over her, assure her that no, Champion, no problem whatsoever.

* * *

After the initial shock of the assembled nobles wore off, some couples approached them, not knowing what to expect at first, and being guarded and a bit condescending towards him. Hawke diverted the talk to him time and time again, and he found himself talking about politics and philosophy and art, old lessons coming back effortlessly and with an innate, poised grace. Hawke beamed at him every time a noble did a double take, impressed with the knowledge and polished manners of an elf, a race they only considered good enough to pour them wine and clean their houses.

There were also some admiring looks directed his way, from both males and females; he didn't care one fig about them so he paid them no heed. But Hawke noticed, and she was livid. She stared down any woman who dared make eyes at him and Fenris couldn’t help but feel a warm rush of male pride wash over him; she was the one everybody wanted but she only wanted him.

Shame sobered him every time he had thoughts like that. Maker knew, he didn't deserve her devotion, not after the way he had left her. But he was selfish enough to rejoice in it, and now that he had finally managed to come to terms with his own feelings, he was selfish enough to take whatever it was she offered him so freely. He was selfish enough to want to be happy, to disregard the fact that Hawke could do so much better than him. He didn't care; if she wanted him, Maker help her, but she would get him. All of him.

After this damned ball.

The dancing started, and noble after noble asked Hawke to dance. Fenris stood to the side, and watched her as she took her first steps around the ballroom, keeping the rhythm with a foot tapping on the floor.

A noble woman approached him.

“Messere Fenris,” she boldly addressed him, “Do you care to dance?”

Fenris raised an eyebrow. This was highly unusual; women didn't usually invite men to dance. It was just not done.

“I am afraid I do not dance,” he lied. He did dance, and very well. In fact he rather enjoyed dancing, since it was the closest thing to his fighting stances he could do and not kill anything. “Besides, my Lady,” he bowed, “I am regretfully taken for the night.”

She looked him over. “How much?” she brusquely asked him then, all hints of playfulness gone.

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “How much what, my Lady?” he tried to keep the anger from his voice.

“How much is she paying you for the night?”

A hot wave of fury went through Fenris, but he kept his rage back, years of restraint and practice on how to not show it coming back to him. He resented the woman even more for that.

“I am afraid you cannot meet my price, my Lady,” he bowed his head. “I have a variety of requirements; a modicum of modesty, a hint of intelligence and an ounce of attractiveness. You possess none.”

 She spluttered as if she had just been doused with a bucketful of cold water and then stomped off. Hawke’s eyes met his over the shoulder of her dance partner with a worried expression, but he just smiled at her winked at her, feeling unusually playful after having dealt with that viper of a woman and putting her firmly in place.

He laughed inwardly to see her blush like a ripe tomato and stumble a bit in the dance steps.

 _Oh, blushing easily, my Hawke_ , he thought. _Let me see what I can do about that._

* * *

At one side of the room, the Comte De Launcet, a man whose sneering contempt was only rivalled by the perimeter of his rotund belly, was showing off one of his most recent acquisitions, a painting by one of the most famous artists of the last decade. All around him, noble stared and murmured in approval and admiration.

“This one I bought on my recent visit to Val Chevin. One of the best-selling artists', Souci's. Shame he was discovered only after his death. This particular piece he painted when he was already 85-years-old. I think that it was the Maker's gift that he lived so long. And with a steady hand and sharp eye, too. He was a master, of course, his skill was otherworldly,” he was saying in his nasal, Orlesian accent. “He died at 88, and this is his masterpiece, his piècede résistance; a painting of his lovely young wife. She was a mere 23 years old.”

Fenris couldn’t help but snicker into his glass.

“Have you anything to add, messere?” the Comte sent Fenris a contemptuous look.

 _Never insult a noble_ , the old rule echoed in Fenris’ mind, _especially the host_.

 _Ah, who cares_ , he answered himself, and ruthlessly shoved his better judgement away.

Another noble was talking now, gazing at the painting with admiration. “Maybe she was older than that, and he portrayed her like he remembered her from their youth? It is so romantic a tale.”

Fenris sneered and raised his glass to the noble. “No doubt it would be, had there been even the merest speck of truth in that."

The Comte looked at him with rage in his eyes as his guests started murmuring. “I doubt an elven warrior,” he spat the words with contempt, “knows all that much about art.”

Fenris’ eyes shone with an almost evil glint. “His work is currently popular because during his lifetime he had a great rival whose talent and innovative technique he could not even dream to match - Jacinthe."

"Ugh.” The host drew back, obviously surprised.  “True, I've heard of him, but what does it have to-..."

Fenris rudely interrupted. "Souci was not 85, he was only 65. He lied about his age to everyone so that he would be treated as an equal and contemporary to Jacinthe. And, of course, so that he wouldn’t be considered his student, or worse, his imitator. He was often referred to as such because there had been insinuations that he had stolen his sketches and copied them, blatantly and unashamedly, if I may add so myself."

The Comte looked at his painting as if it had just offended him. Then he rounded on Fenris. "Outrageous. There's no proof that-"

“As for his early demise,” Fenris ruthlessly continued, the dialogue now gaining the interest of many nobles that had been aimlessly milling around, “it was solely attributed to the amount of spirits he consumed; I dare say he was a man of various vices.  One of them was frequenting house of ill repute, where this particular lady plied her craft. She was an Antivan wh- lady of the night. A courtesan, if you please."

One of the noble ladies that had been admiring the painting minutes ago moved away from it as if she could catch some disease from it.

Hawke neared them and glared at the Comte as he wagged a finger at Fenris, who was as aloof and composed as always.  "You crossed the line here, elf. No one will insult my property and my taste in art in my own home. Not to mention badmouth one of the greatest artists of all the-"

Fenris turned to Hawke, his voice a caress to both reassure her he was on top of the situation and to further snub the obnoxious little man.  "Notice the barely-visible bare leg of another young lady in the background, behind the curtain, Lady Hawke. And consider why the Orlesian lady, wife to the great artist, wears a cheap Antivan material commonly used at bordellos while sitting for her beautiful portrait. "

The noble was left staring at his painting as the crowd dispersed; Fenris was leading Hawke away with a hand low on her back and she was chuckling that if she ever bought any art, she would be sure to consult him first.

They heard a loud noise of a glass cracking, and their host muttering “damn!" as they walked away.

* * *

Hawke watched the dancing crowd, trying not to look too pointedly at Fenris at the other side of the room, surrounded by giggling and twittering girls. He looked to be in pain. His face was set into that stony, stoic expression as always, but she could tell from the tensed way he was holding himself that he would rather be anywhere else.

She sighed and focused back on the noble that was heaping praise on her.

“I was there, Champion, among the hostages, when you rescued us all. Let me express my heartfelt gratitude again. It was a thrilling battle, one I will never forget.”

She nodded absentmindedly, accepting his words while inside her she just wanted to yawn; Sebastian would call that ‘totally inappropriate behaviour’. She briefly wondered what he would say when he learnt about the kiss she had given Fenris, right there, in front of Hightown’s elite. He would probably groan and tell her that she had behaved like no proper lady ever would.

She groaned inwardly at the memory; she couldn’t believe she had been so bold, but damn it, the way they were looking at Fenris, like something that a cat had dragged in... And look at them now, their daughters and wives and sisters drooling over him.

The man on her right interrupted her thoughts, mistakenly supposing the small blush on her face was due to the flattery directed at her.

“The Champion’s bravery is only matched by her modesty,” he drawled. “I concur with Lord Belmont’s praise, Lady Hawke. You were amazing that day; I would never believe,” he lowered his voice, “that an...apostate would save us all, but I guess some of you can be counted on to do the right thing.”

For the second time in one night fury raised its ugly head inside her. Her eyes narrowed and her lips thinned. She was about to let loose a string of curses that was going to make their ears wilt, but Sebastian’s voice echoed in her head again, reigning her raging temper.

_If you absolutely MUST put someone in their place, Hawke, at least do it with style._

“I remember you from that night too, Serah,” she drawled. “Weren’t you the one who....had an unfortunate accident? I do hope the stain came off.”

The man choked on his drink, and she turned her attention to the first man, who was looking at her with a stunned expression.

“As for the battle Serah, I was terrified, if you want to learn the honest truth. I sustained heavy injuries, and nearly died. Trust me that it is me that will never forget that fight, not you.”

“Certainly, Champion,” the man stuttered. “How could I forget? I am sorry for your pain.”

She nodded, mollified, a regal movement of her head, then looked around at the faces of the nobles gathered around her.

“The only regret I have from that day is that I was too late to rescue the Viscount. He was a good man, if a bit too indecisive for my taste.” She raised her glass, and everyone scrambled to imitate her. “To Viscount Dumar.”

“Here, here!”

* * *

She and Fenris found themselves side by side again, as one of the nobles started a heated discussion with a group of his peers.

“They are nothing but animals,” he raised his voice. “Blood thirsty animals, who are only interested in bloodshed and slaughter. They have no civilised manners, no sense of the proper way to conduct warfare.”

Hawke snorted a bit, she couldn’t help it. As if that man had even the slightest idea what battle was all about.

“Champion, would you care to offer us your opinion?” the man turned to her, obviously hoping for her support.

Hawke swallowed hard. She was uncomfortable talking in front of such a big crowd, and she thought about redirecting the question to Fenris, who was an expert in all things Qunari. But then, her spine straightened. She had been incredibly afraid of this ball, of making a fool of herself, but with a jolt, she realised Varric had been right: all she had to do was be herself. Why agonise about not fitting in with he nobles? She had never cared much about them anyway. She didn't care if they talked about her behind her back, she had no aspiration of being one of them; that had been her mother’s dream, not hers.

“The Qunari have a strict code of honour, which they either adhere to or die. For them it is not following the rules when it suits them; their whole lives revolve around it,” she said, her voice calm and the talk around her ground to a halt, every noble watching her and listening to her attentively. She blushed a little but ground her teeth and continued. “The Arishok was a man of his word, a man of principle. He failed to understand how our society can function without the structured order of his; what he saw of our city was chaos and anarchy in his eyes. He just snapped at some point.”

“Don’t tell me you excuse what he did, Champion?” one noble woman gasped.

Fenris stepped in. “Had you lived all your life in a society ordered and controlled to its slightest detail by a code of conduct as rigid as the Qun,” he said, “you would have been of the same opinion. Lady Hawke is simply trying to explain that to you.”

She raised an eyebrow at him, surprised at the formality with which he had just referred to her.

“Still,” the man that had talked first protested, “you cannot deny that they are bloodthirsty, and violent. They have no regard for human life. They slaughter without any discretion.”

“As do we all,” Hawke softly said. “Warfare is never pretty.”

The man looked chastised, but not completely convinced. “What about the way they treat their mages, Champion, the way they collar them like beasts? You are a mage, you can’t possibly agree to that.”

She sighed. “There are many kinds of collars, Serah...Some in the form of bindings around your neck, some in the form of stone Towers.”

_Anders would be so proud of her._

The nobles fell silent. Fenris gave her a pointed look, clearly wanting to disagree but the sadness on her face halted him in his tracks. Instead, he squeezed her hand, hidden by the folds of her dress.

* * *

There were only going to be a few more dances before dinner, and Fenris had been trying to gather up his courage to ask Hawke to dance with him. He crossed his arms on his chest and glared at the host of men waiting in line for a dance with her, asking them to write their names on her dancing card.

Damn it. Damn it to the furthest, darkest corner of the Void.

He had already decided to claim her for himself, to selfishly tie him to her life any way he could; his decision was final. The moment they left this ball, he would apologise for his behaviour, and ask her to forgive him. He would beg and grovel if he had to, but he was winning her back. This night had proved it to him; Hawke had feelings for him. How deep they ran was still to be seen, but for the first time in his free life, he was willing to take the chance, willing to put his heart on the line.

He hoped she would be able to love him. There wasn’t much of him to love, not much to offer her under that mass of hatred and anger, festering in his soul, slithering around his heart like a mass of snakes. But whatever tender feeling was left in him had her face stamped on to it; all the tender emotions he had ever felt were centred on her.

 Fenris was cautious with his feelings; a lifetime of stoic, careful hiding of them, of being wary not to get too attached to anything - lest it became a tool to be used against him - had conditioned him to be wary of any emotional involvement. But once he made a decision, he was relentless, and rarely wavered from his chosen path.

He had already decided his position was next to Hawke. He had already, deep in his heart, made his mind up that if there was any future to be had for him, it would be at her side. He wasn’t sure when it happened, but that moment, when she turned and kissed him in front of all the nobles, casually declaring her interest in him for all to see, without any shame, without any reservation, had been a moment of profound revelation to him.

His misgivings had melted away; she was a mage, but it didn't matter. She was a noble, a prestigious woman of a position he could never match; so what? He didn't care. She was a tender, compassionate, just. She was life and laughter and girlish awkwardness. She was the promise of a future, a togetherness he craved, a life he had never thought he could have.

So why couldn’t he just ask her for a dance?

He glared again, and his foot started tapping the floor nervously as another noble approached her and she smiled brightly up to him. He was the Seneschal’s son, and it was rumoured that an alliance to the Amell house was an idea his father found quite agreeable.

And damn him, he was a good looking lad, red-haired like his father, with a jovial, kind smile and a quick sense of humour. Fenris cringed as he heard Hawke’s laughter, sweet and girly; she was laughing at something that twit had said.

In a flash, he pushed himself off the wall he had been leaning against, and crossed the short distance to her, just as the boy was almost ready to make her promise the last dance to him. He cut in, rudely, but who gave a flying nug, as Varric would say, and stepped closer to Hawke. His voice dropped to a husky, cajoling murmur, an octave she just couldn’t resist.

“Dance with me,” he just said, and Hawke was only able to nod, her voice lost at the carnal look of hunger in Fenris’ eyes.

He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her to him a little closer than was proper and then, when the music started, gliding with her across the dance floor. She surrendered to him totally, letting him set the pace, letting him take the lead and following it like she was born dancing; born to dance, but only with him.  

She held his eyes as they danced, moving as one, her body responding to every little move of his like it somehow anticipated it. Someone whispered –quite loudly- that they danced as if they were making love and Fenris wholeheartedly agreed; it was like making love, it was like a joining, as their gazes melted into each other and their bodies swirled around the dance floor like they were one.

Time stood still, the music faded, the nobles watching them disappeared. All was left was the two of them, looking into each other’s eyes as they followed the steps without even thinking. When the music stopped, it was the furious applause that snapped them out of the trance and they exchanged a small smile as they both blushed and bowed for the crowd. Fenris brought her hand to his lips, and she looked at him, breathless, panting, her eyes shining with happiness.

Dinner was announced, and the crowd dispersed to be led to the great dining room. Hawke started towards the room, famished, but he held her back, and she turned to look at him, a puzzled look on her face.

“Hawke,” he ran a thumb down the soft skin of her cheek, then down her throat. “We must talk.”

She swallowed hard then she smiled, a small trace of fear in her gaze. “Yes, Fenris?” she sweetly asked. “Tell me.”

He looked for the right words, for some elaborate way to tell her, show her, let her know what he had decided. But then her cat like eyes found his, and calm spread through his soul. He didn't need any elaborate, verbose declaration. All he needed was to just tell her.

“I am yours, Hawke,” he just said. “If you’ll have me back.”

Joy exploded in her heart and her eyes shone like jewels. “Silly elf,” she leaned in to kiss him, a tender touch of her lips on his that stole his breath in its sweetness. “I never let you go, anyway.”

The Comte came to lead Hawke to the table but Fenris bowed at him, and asked if he could be the one to walk Lady Hawke to her place.

“Why the formality?” she asked through her teeth. “You have been calling me Lady Hawke, or Champion, all evening.”

“It is only proper Lady Hawke,” he murmured back. As they reached the table he waved the servant away and pulled her chair out for her on his own.  As she sat down, he bent over her, and whispered in her ear something that made her blush like a ripe tomato.

“In public you are Lady Hawke; in private you are my lady. I f you want to, you can drop the lady, and just be mine...Later. Not in front of all these people.”

She looked up to him, and smiled.

_Oh, that was how he wanted to play? Well, bring it._

“What if I want to be more?” she murmured.

One eyebrow rose in question.

She grabbed him by his collar and pulled him down, lightly trailing her lips over his cheek.

“What if I want to be your bitch?” she breathed into his ear and his eyes shot wide before the pupils expanded to all black.

The arrival of the rest of the guests cut their little dirty talk short, but he looked at her pointedly, with a look that promised retribution later.

She chuckled under her breath and greeted the people taking their seats around the table.

* * *

She and Fenris were seated side by side, at the right of the host, the place of honour. She shot him a little panicky look at the sight of the formal setting of cutlery and glassware on the table, but he just smiled and picked up a wine glass to be filled by the server on his right. She imitated him, grateful that he was there.

The host clapped, and the first course was brought in. Hawke’s spirits fell. There was just a little tiny mouthful of food on the plate. Her stomach growled loudly. Was this all?

Fenris leaned in to whisper in her ear. “It is called an amuse-bouche...my lady,” he breathed in her ear. “Its purpose it to whet your appetite and offer a taste of what is to follow.”

She could have been wrong, but there was a small hint of suggestion in his voice, something that told her he wasn’t just talking about food.

“That’s good,” she leaned in to answer him, and then impishly breathed in his ear, the warm little gasp of hot air making him shiver. “It will take much more than just this little amount to fill me.”

His eyes widened a bit and he swallowed the wine in his mouth a little too abruptly, coughing in his napkin.

Hawke bit her lip not to smile and then turned to her host, asking him about the wine they were drinking and he flew into a description of the vintage and the bouquet and all sorts of things like that- it all flew right over her head.  Outwardly, she looked like she was paying attention, but in fact, all her attention was focused on the hot, sexy man on her left.

The second course, an appetiser, was brought in, and Hawke sighed. Another tiny portion.  Fenris gave her a little barely-there smirk. It was a crepe, filled with some kind of melted cheese and cream and Hawke had another devilish idea. She picked the little roll up on her fork, and nibbled at the end, sneaking her tongue out to lick at the cream.

Fenris eyes watched her, darkening with want as she delicately sucked the cheesy filling of the crepe, and she met his eyes with a coy look, then licked her lips. She then turned to the guest on the opposite side of the table and laughed. “I am so sorry, but my table manners are deplorable,” she chuckled.

The man was watching her with hooded eyes. “It is a delight to see someone enjoying their food so much, Champion,” he said.

Fenris scowled at the man then shot an irate look at Hawke. She licked her lips again, then answered the man without taking her eyes off Fenris’ flushed face. “I could simply not resist, Serah. The _cream_ looked so delicious.”

Under the table a foot nudged against hers. She tried very hard not to smile, and wished fervently that he hadn't worn the boots; that way she would at least be able to play with his toes under the heavy tablecloth. She nudged that foot  with her silk slipper but he seemed not even to notice her, cutting into his appetiser with precise, refined grace and eating with controlled speed; not gulping it down, but not showing he didn't like it either.

 She trailed her foot higher, crossing her legs to trail her silver clad toes up his calf, then his thigh. Fenris went absolutely still for just a second, then slipped a hand under the table. She thought it was to stop her, but instead, he trailed his fingers up her calf before that hand returned to his fork.

She caught her breath with an almost audible little gasp.

Feeling more than a little hot and bothered by just a small touch of his talented fingers, she failed to see that a waiter had left another plate in front of her, with sea food.

“Oysters,” the Comte explained.

She looked at the plate with a sceptical look. “I am sound like a country bumpkin for admitting it, my Lord,” she smiled charmingly, “bit I have never had oysters.”

“The proper way to eat them,” Fenris intercepted, “which of course might not be permitted during a formal occasion as this, is to bring the whole shell to your mouth and suck the contents.”

The Comte made a gracious gesture. “Your fine elven warrior has a point Champion. I suggest we let aside the trappings of polite society and try them like that.” Various agreeing voices echoed around the table, and Hawke looked at Fenris, as he brought one shell to his mouth and swallowed down the oyster.

“They are rumoured to be an aphrodisiac,” one noble woman informed Hawke, whispering conspiratorially.

Hawke tasted one, then noticed the way Fenris’ eyes were trailing over her lips.

“What do you think, my lady?” he murmured, low enough so that his voice didn't carry, but gave her goose flesh. “Aren’t they delicious? So soft, so succulent. Salty. A tasty little morsel, that melts on your tongue.”

She was getting breathless. “They...erm...they are quite good.”

She retaliated by trailing her foot a bit higher, then behind his knee. Fenris jerked a bit, his fists clenched, and he sighed. He seemed to like the way her toes trailed up and down his leg. She slipped a hand under the table and made sure; as she trailed her hand up his corded thigh, her fingers brushed an impressively sized bulge; it was a dead giveaway. He gritted his teeth, and his fork fell from his hand to clatter onto the table. His reaction sparked hers, and she felt dizzy with the hot rush of desire that spiralled down her nerve endings to ignite her; Maker, she was so wet that she would soon leave a wet spot on her chair. She squirmed a bit, trying to alleviate the ache between her legs, and he noticed, damn him, because one eyebrow went up, to be followed by a corner of his mouth, as he slipped his hand under the table to adjust the fit of his trousers.

They shared a look that was both heated and frustrated, and an amused half smile. The rest of her oysters remained uneaten, and soon a servant was removing her plate to leave another course in front of her; this time with a sizable portion of roast venison. She picked up another fork, after watching Fenris out of the corner of her eye to make sure she picked the right one.

“Venison,” she murmured. “Finally, some _meat_.”

The host waited for her opinion; she took a small bite then moaned. “Delicious,” she drawled. “Firm, yet succulent. A bit too salty, but otherwise very _tasty_ ,” she commented to their host, who beamed under her approval. “Quite filling, my Lord.”

Fenris coughed into his napkin again.

 She turned to him with a small smile. “Did the wine go down the wrong pipe, Fenris?” she asked him sweetly, her heartbeat accelerating at the possessive, smoking hot look he shot her.

He bit his lip then took a bite out of his meat. “I quite agree, Champion,” he said. “ _Quite filling_.  Perfectly prepared, my congratulations to the chef. He must have taken great care to tenderise and prepare the meat. It is a delight to _eat_. I have never sampled something as tasty and fragrant.”

It was Hawke’s turn to choke.

The Comte beamed, as praise on the food sounded from around the table. But both Hawke and Fenris knew; they had not been talking about food, rather about assuaging another kind of hunger.

Fenris actually groaned when the dessert was brought in, bowls of iced fruit sorbet. Hawke picked up her spoon, smiled at him like an imp, then dipped her spoon in the rich cream before bringing it to her mouth. She closed her eyes and moaned, then licked her lips daintily before exclaiming that she just _loved_ cream.

Maker. She was determined to make him suffer. Was that dessert never going to end?

* * *

After dinner, the whole party moved to the garden, where coffee and tea was served to all the guests.

Fenris waited until she had taken her leave from the elderly women that were chatting happily over their tea and then grasped her hand and pulled her behind him to one of the small, lantern lit alleys that were formed by rose bushes. She followed him, curious at his haste, the way he looked left and right at each intersection.

“Fenris,” she tried to pull her hand back, “are you looking for something?”

There. There was a little alcove along the eastern end of the garden, barely lit and quite secluded. He pushed her in, then followed behind her, taking a second to blow out the nearby lantern.

She turned around, a bit alarmed. “Fenris, wh-“

His mouth was on hers before she could finish her question, his hands tangling in her hair to hold her closer. She moaned, she couldn’t help it, as that wickedly talented tongue invaded her mouth to battle with hers. Time once more stood still, then accelerated with the hunger they both felt surging through them; the kiss grew frantic, desperate, shared breaths and mingled taste, velvety tongues writhing and sliding against each other. Fenris’ hands slipped from her hair to roam her body; they ghosted over her creamy shoulders, over the silk of her dress to span her waist, then down her flaring hips, finally coming to rest against her voluptuous behind. He pulled her even closer, so they were joined from head to toe, their hips grinding against each other.

“Marian...” he murmured against her flesh. A hand frantically pulled her dress up until it pooled around her waist, exposing her thighs, dressed in gossamer silk stockings. His mouth now trailing down her neck, one hand grasped a thigh to hitch it around his waist. He ground himself against her, that bulge on the front of his trousers right where she needed it. She moaned deep and low, the needy sound a plea for relief from this inferno that was consuming her whole, as his fingers played over the garter holding the stockings in place.

“Maker,” she gasped. “Fenris. Touch me, please. I’m dying. Touch me.”

Her urgency, her hunger, fed his until he was ready to throw her to the ground, tear off her dress and ravage her then and there, with all the elite of Kirkwall taking strolls in the garden around them. That thought sobered him up; he realised they would be missed soon, and that being found –or even suspected- romping in the garden would ruin her reputation, or what was left of it.

Putting distance between them was the hardest thing he had ever done; she whimpered and protested, clinging to his shoulders, attacking his mouth with one of her passionate kisses that could virtually get him drunk.

“Marian, we can’t,” he moaned into her mouth. “Not here.”

Just then, as she was ready to beg him not to stop, they heard a couple of noble women going by, talking in a hushed murmur. In the silence of their secluded alcove, hidden by the hedges, the sound carried as clearly as if the women were standing right beside them; they both froze in place.

“With an elf? That is just scandalous!” one of the women was saying. “Leandra will be turning in her grave.”

The other woman giggled a bit. “Yes, but did you _see_ that elf?” A sigh echoed and Hawke clapped a hand over her mouth not to giggle. Fenris rolled his eyes, a light pink starting to dust his cheeks.

“He does look...sinfully good,” the first woman agreed. “But he is an elf!”

“I’d jump him in a heartbeat,” the second woman let out a dreamy sigh. “And did you hear that he put that horrid Claret Sanglier in her place? She attempted to hire him for the night.”

“SHE DIDN'T!” gasped the first woman, whom from the sound of her voice seemed to be an older lady.

“He told her he was taken. And called her an ugly silly bitch, but in more polite language.”

The older lady sighed then. “Now, that man can talk...and that voice....”

“Oh, so now he is not just an elf?” the younger one laughed as they started to walk away. “I have to hand it to the Champion though; she is brave. I would have kept him hidden in the closet and take him out only to play.”

As the voices of the two women drifted further off, Hawke raised her eyes to Fenris’ face, dreading that she would see anger there, and indignation. Instead he was smiling softly at her, his eyes shining with an emotion that made her heart stop midstep through the next beat.

“Fenris?” she asked, her voice uncertain.

“Have I told you how much I love you, Hawke?”

That was it; her heart just stopped this time. She gasped, her mouth fell open, then tears flooded her eyes. She brought a hand to her breast; Maker, her heart had really stopped. It had. She would die now, but Maker, she would die happy. No, not happy. Delirious with joy.

“No...No, you haven’t,” was all she could stutter, still looking into his luminous eyes.

He smiled. “I just did.”

“Yes, you did.”

A smile started uncurling on her face, until  it was wide enough –and bright enough- to nearly blind him with the joy and happiness it showed. He nudged her side a bit with his hand, prompting her to answer him, and she rolled her eyes.

“Are you blind? All of Kirkwall knows I love you.”

“Good to know,” his little smirk was both smug and relieved and she stretched up to kiss him, cupping his cheek in her palm; her lips were tender on his, a kiss as soft as the wings of a butterfly, but it was the most profound kiss in both their lives.

Then she just sent him a coy, cheeky smile, winked at him, and slipped to her knees in front of him.

“Hawke? What are you...Vasta vaas!”

All thoughts faded from his mind, as she unlaced his breaches, dug her hand in to release him and-still smiling- took him in her mouth.

“As I said before,” she moaned around his thick erection, “I just LOVE cream.”

* * *

How the time passed until the rest of the guests slowly started leaving the ball, what he had said and done, who he had spoken too, how they had gotten to her house was later lost in the haze that enveloped his mind the minute those pouty lips had wrapped around his length. He hadn't lasted long, looking down at her dark head bobbing up and down as she took him as far inside as she could. He’d come like a fountain, embarrassingly fast, biting down on his hand to stifle his groans.

For the next hour or so, his mind was fogged, and little shudders shook his frame; every time he closed his eyes, every time he even blinked, he saw Hawke, on her knees, drinking down his seed like it was a rare treat. It was like the flash of pleasure that had fried his brain had emblazoned the image on the back of his eyelids. His member was twitching in his breeches, which were thankfully loose enough at the front so that he didn't flash all of Hightown with his...assets.

He didn't realise how they’d made it back to her house; he must have dragged her there, or carried her. They could have gotten there on the back of a dragon as far as he knew; he didn't care. All he cared about was ripping that dress off her, spreading her legs wide and sinking inside her.

She stopped to talk to her manservant, who had stayed up waiting for her, and he growled low in his throat; Maker, he couldn’t wait anymore. He had to have her, now, _right now_ , he had to claim her as his.

She turned around to smile at him as soon as the door to her room was closed, but she got no chance. Fenris was upon her like a flash and only her furious wiggling and her hands flying to the fastenings of her dress saved it from being ripped apart. He groaned when the silky mass of her dress slipped to the ground to pool around her legs...her silk stocking clad legs. He stepped back to look at her, trembling like a man being electrocuted with the lust whipping his body; the tight corset, accentuating the flair of her hips, the silk garters, perfectly adorning her supple thighs. He moaned her name, then his trembling fingers started unbuttoning his own clothes, fumbling with laces and fastenings.

Maker damn noble outfits, but they had too many laces. His brain refused to cooperate with his fingers and she reached out to help him, smiling coyly as the back of her fingers brushed against his erection, already hard enough to drill a hole through the velvet.

Fenris bit his lip to stifle his desperate moans as her fingers slipped in his half undone doublet and shirt, sliding against the slick muscles of his torso to wrap around his neck. He bent his head to drink deeply from her mouth; Venhedis, there were still too many clothes separating them.

He just couldn’t wait until the corset was removed; it was beyond him. Lust was riding him hard, desire was making his heart thump in his chest like a galloping horse. He needed her with an intensity that bordered physical pain. Without taking the trouble to remove anything else, his mouth still plundering hers, he lowered her to the rug, not even able in his haste to make it to the bed, just a few steps away.

Hawke surrendered as eagerly as a virgin sacrifice, writhing and arching underneath him, her hands everywhere. He struggled to release himself, then pushed her soaked smalls to the side, only to find her moist and ready for him. She was as hot and wet as molten lava, singing his hand with her heat as he slipped his fingers in her core to prepare her. She keened her name and arched off the floor as he found her nub, then her eyes rolled backward and her sweet mouth fell open into a breathless ‘O’ of surprised pleasure.

It pushed him past the limit of his fragile control and, positioning himself with frantic urgency, he thrust inside her to the hilt, joining his flesh to hers. Time once again stood still; pleasure and relief, an amazing feeling of belonging, a sense of returning home; the only home he had ever known. Her sheath tightened around him, trying to draw him deeper, raining fire over his swollen length. He held himself perfectly, exquisitely still for just a second before drawing back to slide inside her again. Bliss. Rapture. She was ecstasy. She was home, and love and pleasure. She was everything. She was his anchor, his safe haven; his heart swelled, his breathing hitched.

 _Maker_.

“Hold me,” he urged her, his voice rough and strained. “Hold me tight.”

“Always,” she breathed and then her thighs wrapped around him, her arms around his back, and she buried her head in his neck, moaning his name again like a broken plea. Fenris felt surrounded by her, taken, and realised with a jolt that she had claimed him just as completely as he had. The thought that he was hers, _hers damn it_ , just like she was his, snapped the final thread of his self control. He growled, then set up a furious pace, shafting her like his life depended on it; perhaps it did.

 Her moaning, panting breath, his thundering heart, the sexy sound of flesh slapping together was their music, music they made together as they struggled for completion. The smell of hot sex and arousal permeated the air, making them both drunk.

She took his ruthless pounding and revelled in it, in the dark, out of control way he was taking her. Her senses were reeling; her brain was being short-circuited by flashes of pleasure. His body covered her like a hot, sexy blanket; she clung to him and submitted, urged him on with the rolling of her hips against his and her hands clutching his back, her nails digging into his flesh.  Every breath was a plea for him to hurry, to take her harder, faster, _more_.

His sexy growls, in that molten caramel voice of his were driving her harder, higher, tightening her body into a tight coil of sensation, pushing her towards the end into a freefall that was going to destroy her. Yet she craved it, pursued it, fought for it. When it finally came, she thought she was going to die; she was catapulted into the stars by bliss so total that it was agony. She lost her breath, her heartbeat, her very sanity and grip on reality. Only he existed, his thrusting length inside her, his body covering her, pinning her to the floor. She felt him tense, draw as tight as a bow before he arched in her arms with a prolonged moan and came inside her, scalding her with his release.

Time started moving normally again, a branch was tapping against her window, her mabari was snoring outside her door. Normal sight and hearing slowly returned; she registered how hard the floor was underneath her. She sighed, content, happy, replete in the aftermath of what was the best sex of her life, even hurried and frantic as it had been. Above her, Fenris sighed softly, and raised his head to lock his moss green eyes with hers.

“Are we alive?” she asked, awed, her voice soft as to not break the spell they seemed to be under.

“Just barely, I think,” he smiled then kissed her tenderly, gratefully. Inside her, his member, half-stiff, started hardening again.

“That barely took the edge off,” he murmured, before rising to his knees, her spent body still cradled in his arms, and made his way to the bed.

“Again?” she gasped. Already, he was stiffening inside her, and every step he took made him slide back and forth, igniting nerves she thought were going to be satisfied for a long time. Hunger roared inside her once more. “Oh, please, tell me you have more,” she begged, gyrating her hips, and he growled and climbed on the bed, still connected to her, her lithe body wrapped around him like a limpet.

“Much more, my lady,” he murmured before ripping her corset off her, revealing her creamy breasts to his roving eyes.

She pouted. “I thought I was going to be your bitch,” she complained, then lost her breath as his tongue wrapped around a nipple to suck it into his mouth.

“I can do that,” he smirked. “I can _definitely_ do that.”

She purred. “Do your worst.”

How many times would be enough? How many times would he have to take her, urged on by this hunger raging inside him, until he could finally look on her naked body without instantly hardening for her? How many days and nights would this drive to take her last, the need to fill her until there was not an inch of her not coated in his essence?

 He was beginning to think it might take more than a few lifetimes.

He had taken her time and time again into the night, sitting up, lying down, on their sides, even standing up when she had left the bed for an instance to get some water. They had thrashed her room; on the armchair, her bent over the desk, against the door. Their intense lovemaking was followed by little naps or gentle pillow talk until one of them would look at the other a certain way and desire would spark again.

He had lived up to his promise to make her into his bitch; up on all fours, her glorious hair falling into her face as he pounded her from behind. She had urged him on with whispered dirty words, begging him- _please_ _fuck me, give me your cock, pound my cunt_ \- and he had snapped; he hadn’t meant to come inside her again, wary of a pregnancy, but he just couldn’t resist. He watched her sheath quiver around him as she came too, milking him, the sight of her stretched flesh around him and his semen leaking out of her one of the hottest things he had ever seen. There was a certain primal instinct that rejoiced in his giving his woman his seed, in her accepting it like a gift and not a threat.  

He groaned to remember it now. Maker, he had come inside her so many times that she was probably already pregnant. He was terrified at the thought...and excited also. It would be gloriously right to have a baby as the result of this night; a tangible proof of how completely connected they had become.

She had given as good as she’d got, her natural, uninhibited sexually coming to life; She had been willing to try anything, do anything, give him pleasure any way he wanted. It was enough to remember the way she had worshipped his body with hands and tongue and mouth for his totally spent manhood to start twitching again. He closed his eyes and sighed. He had to be completely empty by now. Maker, he hoped he was empty. He _ached_ , damn it.

He looked at her, napping on her stomach next to him, her mouth-watering nude body splayed like a banquet. There were faint bruises and finger marks marring her skin, the skin of her neck was peppered with suckle marks, the flesh between her legs was red and irritated. She looked totally debauched. And he loved it.

He turned on his side, groaning as his own body protested as well, muscles strained and skin too sensitive; his markings were burning him, but it was a dull, almost pleasant ache. He trailed on hand down her silky back, caressing her with his fingertips; down to her voluptuous ass, where he took his time fondling her, then up again to pet the fine hair curling at her nape.

Maker, she was perfection.

She slowly opened her eyes to give him a sleepy look and then her eyes widened.

“No more.”

He chuckled at her panicky tone. “I think it’s well and truly knackered, Hawke.”

She shot a look down to his limp manhood then visibly relaxed. “Oh, thank the Maker.”

He raised an eyebrow and was ready to retort, when the handle of the door turned down. Hastily, he threw the sheet over them both, dreading the sight that Orana’s eyes would meet; the room smelt heavily of sex, and there were clothes strewn everywhere.

Only that...it wasn’t Orana that was standing at the doorframe.

“Well, well, my lovely lovebirds,” Varric snickered. “Done something with the room? I love the new decor.”

Hawke sat up, clutching the sheet to her breasts.

“Varric!” she cried out, happy to see her best friend, before her eyes narrowed and she glared at him. “Aren’t you in Tantervale?”

Varric pursed his lips and looked at Fenris, who was just lying there, too tired to even move and enjoying the sight of an irate Hawke and a Varric in trouble a little too much.

“A tiny change of plans.”

She tossed the pillow to him. “Change of plans my ass! You never left! You lied to me so I wouldn’t take you to the ball and I would have to take Fen-OH!”

Varric smiled broadly. “Oh, indeed. Didn't you have fun? I think you both owe me a present.”

She chuckled, mollified, and purred, “Oh, I had a ball!” before lying back down to snuggle against Fenris and run a hand down his torso.

Fenris glared at the interested way Varric’s eyes roamed over them both, then tossed his pillow too, and _he_ managed to hit the dwarf. “Out. We’ll send you flowers. Go. Make yourself scarce.”

Varric chuckled, bowed, then turned to leave. “No need for flowers and shit, Broody. Just name your firstborn after me.”

 

* * *

 

As it turned out, though, exactly nine months later, their baby entered the world with an indignant cry; Fenris joked that the poor little mite was probably appalled at being named Varric. The dwarf huffed and took the baby in his arms, cooing to him and promising him that one day he would inherit Bianca.

"We need to have a ball to celebrate," Hawke said before falling into an exhausted sleep so she didn't catch both men muttering  _Maker preserve us_  under their breaths.

 

 


End file.
